


Don't Expect Magic

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Fairy Godparents, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mixed Signals, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mystrade is Magic, Tags May Change, do not copy to another site, lonely Greg, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: In a world that doesn't believe in magic but needs it anyway, Mycroft Holmes is tasked with helping clients.But what happens when his only friend becomes his newest charge?
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Other(s), Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 64
Kudos: 151
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic





	1. Chapter 1

It was Thursday.

Mycroft _loathed_ Thursdays. Besides the Adamsian fact that he could never get the hang of them, Thursdays were by and large client days. Every instance in memory (and his memory was nearly faultless) had led to a new client being unceremoniously dumped in his lap on a Thursday, at some point between the hours of 7 in the morning and half 11 at night. The universe was rarely so lazy, but it apparently didn't want him losing too much sleep.

For Mycroft Holmes - elder brother to a dangerously clever detective and Big Brother of sorts to the nation, perpetually lonely and with a hairline he feared was receding by the month - was a fairy godfather. Centuries from the bygone era of floaty grandmotherly sorts with wands, the few faint strands of shimmering DNA now twisted like carpet fibers had been diluted to the point of the rare exception - and Mycroft was certainly exceptional. They were, by all research and account, a nearly dying breed, less needed in a modern world where fairytales no longer existed and happily ever afters were a thing to be desperately wished for without truly being believed in. The species was **so** rare in fact, that not only had he only encountered one other in his life thus far (an aging godmother in the Sichuan provinces) he'd apparently been "blessed" with several skipped generations' worth of magical ability and a sacred charge to help others. At the expense of himself.

One would _think_ the care of an entire country (and often its neighbours, cousins and the world at large) as well as the numerous minor 'wishes' he granted on a daily basis would prove sufficient to keep the pain of noncompliance at perpetual bay, but alas, it was not to be so. In the rare recovery periods between clients he was allowed reprieve, but when he was being given an active charge? It was worse than a nasty flu - faint flush to start, a prickling in the tips of his ring fingers, tiny chills that played hopscotch up and down his verterbrae, a gentle swirling in the pit of his stomach that would crank to a roiling nausea the longer he went without determining his new client.

So in a way, given that he'd awoken 2 days prior with tingling fingers and rosy cheeks, he should be happy it was Thursday. 

He just... wasn't.

The day was drawing to a close when Anthea announced he had a visitor. The syllables to cry off were on the tip of his tongue when his assistant elected to give the identity of his unexpected guest.

In the years they had been acquainted, DI Gregory Lestrade had become (and remained) one of the few shining spots in Mycroft's otherwise lackluster life. Quiet dinners to discuss his brother, phone calls or texts to touch base, the odd cigarette at a crime scene or cup of punch at a holiday party, and on one spectacularly momentous occasion 3 days of uninterrupted proximity while he helped Lestrade recover from a stomach bug. Mugs of tea, countless bottles of water, soda crackers, bowls of homemade Thai chicken soup, a few gentle lingering touches allowed to the brow to check temperature or between the shoulder blades while the poor man vomited, movies on Greg's squashy sofa where he seemed content to rest his head on Mycroft's shoulder and drift. Happy as he was to see the man back on his feet, Mycroft had been quietly ashamed to admit he was sad their time had come to a close. The universe had retaliated with 2 days of his own illness to cope with, followed by a maddeningly needy client who called him day and night for 3 weeks until he solved her problem -without magic, in a howling case of irony.

Mycroft firmly shunted the memory away with a shudder just as the door to his office opened. The moment he walked in, hair shimmering in the soft lamplight, Mycroft felt a small kick in his heart like an overjoyed rabbit. Their hands met over the desk as they shared a genuine smile - and instantly the world went quiet. The cement mixer in Mycroft's gut slowed to a gentle hum and the lingering efflux of the DI's aftershave beckoned his nose like a teasing tendril of steam in a cartoon.

_Oh. Oh, no. This is most inconvenient._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over dinner, Mycroft tries to subtly suss out Greg's Wish.

"So, Insp- ah, Greg," he safely amended before the DI could correct him. Social calls required social rules. "What can I do for you?" Something midway between magic and habit kept Mycroft's voice steady and his expression calm as Greg released his hand and immediately transferred his own to his hair, scruffing the silvered locks into a devastating tousle. A quick chat, Sherlock running amuck as usual and could Mycroft please keep an eye on him til the rather sensitive case was wrapped or the DCI would have his balls, a breath of inessential thanks- and then the not entirely unusual suggestion of dinner was out of Mycroft's mouth before he could think better of it. That smile - easy, soft, eyes warmer than a glass of the finest Scotch - was deeply affecting, even as he determined not to allow himself to think of it just now. _You distracting man. One of these days I shall not be held responsible for my actions..._

"If ya like. No obligation, though."

"Nonsense, Greg. It's past 6, and if you've had my brother to deal with on top of a case, I'll wager lunch was 2 cups of Scotland Yard sludge and half a bag of your sergeant's crisps." A little twinkle was allowed out to play, practically daring the DI to contradict his assessment.

Teeth sinking into the corner of his bottom lip and a slide of his eyes were as good as a confession. "S'pose I _could_ do with a bite. What'd you have in mind?"

The first several suggestions that presented themselves like eager puppies were hastily discarded while he tidied his office and secured his laptop, until he finally landed on the Diogenes, recalling Greg's fondness for their steaks and sweets. As they passed Anthea's desk she bid them both goodnight with a faint but genuine smile, and Mycroft allowed himself to be persuaded to let Greg drive them over as he alerted his driver to a few hours' leisure. As Lestrade navigated the rhythm of the city, music playing quietly over the speakers, Mycroft dialed the club and ordered dinner, to be ready in Mycroft's private office when they arrived.

Car secured in the lot, they made their way in without a whisper, down the labyrinthine corridors to Mycroft's office and had just settled on the sofa with their beverage of choice when dinner was wheeled in by an attendant. Thick cuts of Irish beef cooked to preference, mounds of whipped buttery potatoes and savory roast vegetables for his guest, a lightly dressed salad and grilled squashes to accompany his own. And they ate, stretches of companionable silence punctuated by noises of culinary appreciation and easy converse, finishing with some light teasing over dessert options. The usual revolving assortment of cakes and custards were of course on hand, but Thursdays boasted banana shortcakes with sour cream whip drizzled with dark chocolate or Grand Marnier mini souffles with aerated mousse, and Greg had apparently **not** been privy to this fact. They ordered one of each, Mycroft already planning to give Greg the lion's share and calculating exactly how many hours on his treadmill would help balance out the meal's calories when the other man let out a sigh - mostly content, tinged at the edges with something else.

It was the something else that zipped through his gut, leaving behind a bobbing wake of anxiety. Right. Gregory Lestrade, keeper of the peace, unfairly handsome man, friend to his baby brother and object of his own schoolyard crush despite the permanent **NOT FOR YOU** label... was now his client. It was now his duty to suss out Greg's Wish - some absent yet vital necessity, the man's truest and deepest hidden desire - and then move heaven and earth to see that he got it.

While his friend contemplated the refreshed amber liquid in his glass, Mycroft contemplated his friend. _What could it be?_ One could never ask a client directly what they were wishing for, in part as a covert measure (though clients were magically bound from telling others about his influence and tended to forget his role and/or total existence as soon as their wish had been fulfilled) and in part as they were likely to tell him what they _thought_ they wanted or _should_ want or (bizarrest of all to him) what they thought _he_ should think they wanted. And rarely was it about want anyway. It was, fundamentally, satisfying a need in their life that would enable said life to improve. 

With tempered fondness he thought back to Lyri, the charmingly neurotic client he'd obtained after nursing Greg through his illness. A hopeless romantic with an even more hopeless love life, she had set her sights on a rather sweet accountant in her office block and requested the works. Full Cinderella treatment - perpetually untamable hair smoothed and primped, Boho chic style replaced with haute couture minidresses and kitten heels, junkyard special transformed into sleek transport before their dates... which continuously flamed when the magic (and Lyri) ran out before the goodnight kiss. For the better part of a month Mycroft had answered every desperate call, heading off meltdowns when she "tried" doing it all herself, talking her down from the ledge she ended up on after every failure, bailing her out time and again with magic and a cool head and years of world-sustaining skill... until he realised this method left no end in sight and he could very easily spend the next several years languishing in a spare cupboard, brought out to spruce her through a magical car wash every morning before her husband could see her. And that had finally done it. A foot firmly put down regarding magical fixes, instead steadying her to look at herself in the mirror with the advice to let her beau see the **real** her, imperfections and all. The worst that could happen was she learned he wasn't right for her. He'd watched as the gears turned under bobby pins that stuck out of a half-done hairdo like lightning rods, watched as eyes rimmed in shaky emerald circles really looked, watched as the start of a genuine smile tugged up a crookedly lined but pretty mouth. CCTV had taken him along for the ride, confident in her new outlook but unable to let her go just yet. She'd taken the tube to dinner in a dress she already owned, face clean and hair in a loose braid, trying not to fidget with her Camden bangles. A revelatory conversation over slices of pizza (she was trying too hard, he didn't feel he measured up to her) and 6 months later they were keeping on, happily squashed in a cosy Balham flat, talking about having kids someday. She'd waved at Mycroft when they passed in the park a few weeks ago, a warm if faintly puzzled smile on her face before she shrugged and walked on.

The man before him presented a far more subtle challenge. Likely to be something that would take a similarly simple fix, once he knew what end he was attempting to bring about. Or would it be a beginning, the start of something new and exciting, making sure the first steps were taken on the right path? 

Greg's loneliness was concealed to most but nearly palpable to Mycroft, perhaps due to its uncomfortable recognizability. His confidence had taken a hit during the divorce, a hefty chunk of his guts already ripped out before proceedings kicked off, and the rebuilding (while not wholly done) could certainly stand a little shoring up. In the year, four months, two weeks, three days and - Mycroft risked a casual glance at his watch - 37 minutes since the decree absolute, Greg had been on exactly two dates (both awkward, short and without encore) and had one hookup... which had looked promising on paper (or rather text screen) until Sherlock intervened and she got back together with her fiance a week later. He was great with his family, true leader to his team, wonderful company in the pub, ever patient with Sherlock, and seemingly never unhappy to see Mycroft ... but he was lonely and that didn't seem right.

Even if it didn't end up being _the_ Wish, Mycroft could certainly see where Greg might benefit from a new relationship. Someone kind and strong, able to handle the demands of Greg's job, provide balance and offset for the bad days. Someone who had a brain and a heart and a spine but could still go weak in the knees over him. Someone to make love with all night long, to hold and be held by in the aftermath and make breakfast together on Sundays.

But something had to come first: a measure of confidence restored to encourage him he could handle another plunge in the sea of love, which would attract someone worthy, in turn bolstering his confidence, thereby strengthening his relationship and leaving him even happier. An ouroburos of positivity. It would work, and give his fairy godfather time to determine Greg's real Wish. Desserts delivered and left alone again, the men settled in a little more snugly on the couch, Greg failing to notice Mycroft's slow head-to-toe perusal as he gauged where best to begin. 

Should he zap the grey out of Gregory's hair? He seemed accepting enough of the look, and the thought of him without the argent shine caused Mycroft a shiver of distress. A new wardrobe perhaps, bought under the guise of a 'thank you'? Strangely, the off-the-peg suits, faded band shirts, footie gear for the odd weekend game, even his beloved leather jacket and jeans suited him perfectly. He couldn't really magic up a new career for the man so much as use his 'minor government position' to fix it, boost it or make it run smoother, but knew he would not even if it were possible. Rare for London, law enforcement and humans at large, Greg actually loved his job. Viewed it almost as a calling. There were days it punched him in the guts or made him want to rip his hair out, but at the end of the day he was happy knowing he made a difference. Despite any worry for the man's safety, Mycroft knew he slept more soundly knowing Greg was on the job, proof through the night of good people doing good in the world.

Someone out there felt the same way, and while he waited for the 'Aha!' flash that always heralded the Wish, he could buck up his friend and place him on their path. And in the meantime, there was dessert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to have the guys walk a few blocks to a nice restaurant, thereby giving Mycroft time in public to work a little magic while he thought about the past, but noooo they just had to drive to Diogenes. Fine. Since the setting of this changed from public to private club, Mycroft's wand doesn't get a reveal until next chapter. (It's not the only thing coming, so hang on.)
> 
> In the meantime, comments and kudos help me to not feel like too much of a dorky fluff-peddling sham.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft unexpectedly figures out what Greg's Wish is. Or should I say, who...

They planned to meet again Saturday evening, which got bumped to the late afternoon when both concluded their workdays ahead of schedule. The elder Holmes took his leave of a pleasantly smiling Anthea and had his driver drop him a few blocks from the Diogenes, where they intended to rendezvous before deciding the course of the evening.

The good mood he found himself in as he walked surprised Mycroft, as rarely was the Iceman struck by the harmony of mankind, warm as summer sunshine. Occasionally a swift resolution of a sticky situation or a night out at the opera or the luxurious embrace of a favourite suit made him briefly content, but moments of true happiness he had found thin on the ground in his life. The last in recent memory of any sustained positive mood, odd though it might seem, was when he'd watched over Lestrade during his illness. It had been peacefully domestic, and strangely satisfying to take care of someone who both knew of his care and appreciated it. His brother despised his interferences, the nation and world at large rarely knew of his efforts on their behalf, and clients by nature and design could not extend their acknowledgement past the conclusion of his service to them. Gregory Lestrade had proved... exceptional. And perhaps the man in mind was the impetus for his cheer - perhaps it was a Wish-granting day. Sooner than expected, but expediency in the matter was not something he would **ever** complain about.

The duress that came from protracted delays in Wish fulfillment was not the least of it. It was the damn compulsion to help that irked him - a not entirely pleasant feeling that got worse the longer the Wish took to grant, whether its delayed gratification was his fault or not. Nerves that twisted into corkscrews, a hypersensitivity to his skin so he could feel the need for small wishes like hailstones, a desperate need that demanded attention like a lovelorn feline yowling in his brain. If he took it into his head to move to an archipelago off the Antarctic coast, he would never escape it. Not that he would ever dare try. So a Wish making itself known at speed was by far the best solution for all concerned.

Small wishes (no big magic required) were easily granted as he walked light-hearted through the streets: a child in danger of losing a beloved toy finding it returned to their lap before they could cry, a puddle hit by a lorry wheel deciding not to splash _quite_ high enough to douse the nervous woman on her way to a first date. Mycroft's principal 'wand' as it were was his perpetual umbrella, while his cherished Mont Blanc fountainpen (a gift from Uncle Rudy after university and permanent resident of his breast pockets) was a favoured second and quite helpful in times of social subtlety - though he had come to learn any straight implement could be used in a pinch. On occasion he found chopsticks a novel alternative, refilling low cups of green tea or subtly shifting bottles of soy sauce away from table edges or closer to patrons who wanted them. At a recent state dinner, his migraine was alleviated somewhat by the performance of minor fixes around a table of diplomats and ambassadors using his cutlery - perhaps one of the only times his normally faultless table manners were less than exemplary but it had avoided another powderkeg in the Balkans when the Swedish ambassador's toupee was cleanly righted instead of being allowed to slip off his head into the soup of the Ukranian attaché. And there was the memorable situation that had seen him use a sword at a knighting ceremony to-

A familiar black towncar was waiting near the steps of the club. _What on earth?_ Women were practically taboo at the Diogenes, though as in most things, Anthea was an exception. She was on his permanent guest list, one of 6 females even allowed on premises, and the only one not employed or wed to a member. Nevertheless, if she was here there was a need to be answered and Gregory could stand a brief pause in the Strangers' Room, drink in hand to offset the crush of silence. 

She alighted smoothly to the pavement as he crossed the rear fender, falling neatly into step at his side. As they made their way up the steps and through the held doors of the Club, the clicks of her stilettos almost as muted as her fingers where they flew soundless over the keys of her Blackberry, Mycroft's thoughts flew with similar efficacy through his mental files of what situation now required his attention. So focused were they both that the fact his personal office was occupied went unnoticed for nearly 3 seconds.

Mycroft felt the moment Greg's eyes landed on them from the telltale flutter of a thousand butterfly wings that kicked up in his gut as they approached, and his own grey-edged gaze flashed to the man's coffee and cream eyes. _What on earth?_ The only sound that made it out was an undignified half-squeak, quickly smothered as he closed his mouth with a soft _click_.

Pushing to his feet from the chair he'd been seated in, Lestrade took a hesitant step toward the pair. "Er.... sorry. Tom - the guy on the desk - recognized me. Let me in so I could wait here for you." His eyes flicked back and forth between the powered duo, and some unseen force drew back his broad shoulders and nudged his chin level, even as a lopsided smile touched his mouth. "But if Anthea's here, I'm guessing that's it for our plans." 

Mycroft's heart sank as his hand tightened on his brolly handle, despite knowing there was no magical fix to the situation. He wanted to protest it would only take a moment, that he would have it sorted if only Greg would indulge him with a little patience - but he found himself at an uncharacteristic loss. The grip ratcheted a further fraction when Greg stepped between them, a soft squeeze delivered to their arms as he passed with a "S'alright. You two go save the world" before leaving without another syllable spoken.

_Damn._

It was a case, one of their own and tied to a delicate house of cards with a line invisible yet easily knotted. The whole thing could come crashing down with a single wrong move and taking every action to ensure that didn't happen took the next several hours, endless pots of tea and hastily consumed Chinese food he was sure would've tasted better if shared with a certain silver-haired DI.

When they showed up at a crime scene 48 hours later needing Greg to hand off the investigation he'd somehow landed in, Mycroft again _felt_ the moment Greg's eyes landed on them, his feet carrying him unconsciously as he pondered the implications of a sensation that only accompanied Wishes coming twice in such succession.

When Greg arrived at Whitehall a few days later to see how the case had resolved, Mycroft was standing by Anthea's desk and so had a front row seat to the way the DI's chocolate orbs practically melted when he spotted them, the fluttering now so intense it made his heart tremble.

_Oh._

At the beginning of the following week, Mycroft and his second sauntered through the bullpen of NSY heading for Lestrade and his sergeant - only for the butterflies to become dive-bombing pterodactyls. As the other pair spotted them, Mycroft saw Greg's gaze flash to the floor for an instant before bouncing back in their direction, half shielded under his lashes and a roguish bite to his lower lip. A sense of longing flowed through the politician, though decidedly not his own; it was as if he'd stepped into an invisible stream of yearning and was now being dragged along by its current. A subtle check of his peripherals showed Mycroft his assistant's expression and there might as well have been a posted warning about nuclear radiation given the near-visible glow she was emitting in Greg's direction. Her Blackberry sat in her palm, momentarily forgotten and damn if that was not the most telling sign of all.

_Oh no._

At that moment, for the first time in his secondary career Mycroft wished himself far away - a secret fortress in the centre of Antarctica with only a library and teakettle for company, compulsory icks be damned. For the first time, he saw magic (his _gift,_ his brain spat) for what it truly was - a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs and hides in her pillow fort* There's one more chapter to go! You can't kill me or I won't be able to post it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we come to The End.... or is the beginning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was absolutely intended to be wrapped up in a nice bow _last_ week so it would conclude with the month but alas, real life prevailed upon me. And I don't have a fairy godparent of either gender to fix it for me.
> 
> Doncha just hate when that happens?

He'd survived the day. Somehow. 

The interaction at NSY had been an awkward stilted conversation as he struggled not to be overwhelmed by the constant zinging of attraction around his head like invisible fairies on angel dust. The business had been concluded within a half hour; it had aged him 5 years.

Once returned to what should have been his sanctuary at Whitehall, Mycroft's misery had continued unabated as Anthea (who'd lingered behind the space of a minute after their meeting) was now surreptitiously texting amid the avalanche of emails and directed memoranda. He could tell it was not work-related but rather personal by the soft tightening in the corners of her eyes and the subtlest microexpression twitch of her mouth's right corner, rather than her usual left.

At half three he'd accidentally brushed the intercom and overheard an intermittent feed (the result of an as yet unfixed loose wire, itself the result of the _tiniest_ tap he'd given it with his knuckles following a meeting with the Chancellor of the Exchequer) of a jovial chat in progress between Anthea and... Lestrade. His heart plummeted to his shoes at the sound of the man's voice, not able to spare a second's thought as to what he was doing here.

Eventually irritated with the constantly dropping thread of conversation he found himself increasingly desperate and despairing by turns to listen to, he crept across the length of his carpet on tiptoe, carefully twisting the knob without a whisper of protest and cracking the door open a sliver one would be hard-pressed to notice. One pupil took in the figures leaning against the front of her desk, though only able to see Anthea's expression. He caught a mention of a pub quiz the following evening (an invitation of sorts, he gleaned as Anthea murmured in the affirmative) when Greg suddenly leaned in close and Mycroft wondered if the freezing snap in the center of his chest indicated a heart attack or merely a stroke. Greg's low rumble was too soft for outsiders to hear even if blood _wasn't_ roaring through the politician's ears like a tsunami, but he nudged Anthea's shoulder with his own, earning an affectionate eyeroll and a swat to his bicep once he'd straightened away from her. In a blink Greg caught her hand and they simply stared at each other quietly a moment, the look of warm sincerity of Anthea's face piercing her employer's heart as he imagined its mirror on Greg's features.

(Easily done; it was a look that had of late only been directed at him.)

Still, the expression on his assistant's face said a lot - mostly about the dashing DI who'd turned out to be her Prince Charming, her knight in shining poly-blend.

He slipped the door closed, drawing oxygen through his nose before returning to his desk to wait, absently wondering how long it might take for them outside to recall they were _not_ , actually, the only people in the bloody world. 10 minutes later Anthea appeared sans police escort but with a refreshed cup of Earl Grey, making a roundabout inquiry about the likelihood of them leaving by 6 that was far less subtle than she imagined. Nevertheless, at quarter to, he summarily dismissed her for the night, continuing with work not needed til after the start of the next month.

He dismissed his driver and walked home, past a pop-up street carnival crowded with noise and color, swirls of light and gleeful screams. His nose was flooded with scent: the smoky salt of popcorn, the sickening sweet of fairy floss, the pinching sour of lemonade. Tiny wishes bombarded him from all sides like blowdarts - a boy hoping to impress his crush with a prize from a game, a little girl with sticky orange traces of an ice lolly all over her tear-streaked face. But a point of his umbrella did nothing, nor a followup wave of his fountain pen. He could summon neither concentration nor will for the simplest small wish, and no sympathy for those making them. The game was rigged, the prizes future landfill fodder, the relationship would fizzle in a month, and the child was the one who smeared the synthetically-flavored frozen treat everywhere; let _them_ live with the consequences.

Somewhere between his second and fourth glasses of 25-year Dalmore (his third had been blissfully unthinking, _thank you_ ) Mycroft rolled the glass over the creases in his forehead, aching for an osmosis effect. Soothing through the skin rather than the blood. 

_Oh, please,_ please _no. Please do not make me witness this... **thing** between them, to watch as they fall in love. Do not force my hand to play a part. I do not care that it's unwarranted. I do not care that I have no right to jealousy - the man was a friend, to me, to us, to all, and never mine. I do not care! It will break my heart. It would have fractured regardless of whom he chose, but... not her. Not Anthea. She was mine, too; we had each other against the world. She would have understood. She might have..._

_It's not fair,_ a rarely acknowledged portion of his soul whimpered. He felt a strange, tragically childish longing for hot cocoa, the way Nanny used to make it. Nanny had adored him, fussed over him like a surrogate granny, soothing hurts and slights with tea and stories and sweets made by Cook. Father's devotion had been to Mummy and Mummy's devotion had been to Sherlock, Mycoft's devotion had been to his family and Sherlock's devotion was wholly unto himself - but at least someone in the house had loved him.

And now... the person whom had lodged in his heart like a splinter, growing a space for themselves and wrapping firmly round and through that space like friendly kudzu - well, he would _always_ have that space, even if a similar home could never be carved to match for Mycroft. It was... fine. It was the way of things, never to be his. He had his books and his suits and his clients and his work. He could take care of himself as he always had.

They would still be a part of his life; he could not bear to shut them out. He would see them happy. After all, sacrificing his own felicity for another in his care was strangely comforting, familiar in its seeming improbability. _This I can do, so this I will do._

When he arrived the following morning with a faint betraying smudge of lavender beneath his eyes, Anthea was 10 minutes behind. When Mycroft uncharacteristically called her on the isolated tardiness, her only response besides a flash widening of her eyes was that she'd had a late night working with Scotland Yard.

His morning coffee tasted like funeral ash filtered through dirt. The nib in his second favourite pen snapped and bled India blue over a treaty. Despite the way it turned to flavorless lumps on his tongue he ate the Brie and pear enchilada Anthea had brought him for lunch, and he swallowed his emotion with his herbal tea and began encasing his heart once more in impenetrable layers of permafrost.

By home time, all he wanted was to drown himself in a warm bath of his own tears and sleep for a week. So it was not without a little shock that he found himself directed to the Red Lion pub to be a last minute fill-in for the NSY pub quiz team. Mycroft found himself agreeing on the unvoiced proviso that he would go only long enough to tell Greg he was letting him go, wish them every happiness and drug himself numb for the inevitable wedding.

The pair of them were laughing at the bar when he walked in, shoulders rounding a little at the crush of humanity until he drew them back with a deep breath of the less than fresh air. He'd only just stepped within range when Sergeant Donovan stepped up, snaked an arm around Anthea's waist and planted a quick peck on her flushing cheek. He did a brief unnoticed impression of a goldfish out of water before the pieces fitted into place with a muted click and the picture solidified before him.

"A late night with Scotland Yard, indeed."

Cigarette held between two thick digits, Greg wheeled and blew a stream of smoke over his shoulder before facing Mycroft with a grin. "Hey! Ya made it!"

"So it would seem."

At the sight of their seconds canoodling nearby, Greg turned his smile to the floor before indicating the door through which Mycroft had just come with a significant look. "Forgot something in the car. Step out with me?" In lieu of a reply, Mycroft turned and tried to make sense of the giddy bliss rushing through him like the bulls of Pamplona when he felt the steady pressure of a firm hand at the small of his back.

Once outside, Greg continued.

"S'really great about them, innit?" Off Mycroft's slight goggle, Greg tipped his head at the pub. "The pair of 'em - Anthea and Sal."

"You.... suspected?"

"Suspected? Mate, I _knew_ about them. Didn't-" Greg's chiseled jaw dropped to the pavement and his eyebrows neatly rose to his hairline until they became best friends who might prove difficult to separate. "Are you... telling me I figured out something before a **_Holmes?!_** 'specially Mycroft the Great and Powerful." 

The 'not so great and powerful' man in question flushed to the tips of his ears, and felt a corresponding heat painting itself down his chest. Of course Gregory would have noticed, and perhaps that had been the constant source of the fluttering zings he'd experienced around them; the man was happy for his friends. "I... was not entirely in the dark, Insp - _Greg._ I knew something was afoot, of a... possibly romantic nature. I merely... misapprehended the relevant pairing."

"In other words..." Greg's hardly suppressed grin was rivaling the streetlamps lighting the twilight. "You got something wrong." Mycroft's hushed admission only seemed to delight the man further. "So if not that a lowly chancer from the ranks of the Met had bagged your posh girl, what's been eating you the past week?"

Pale eyes grew wide in the gloom, and his thickening tongue flashed over suddenly too-dry lips. "Greg... I..."

"Something you wanna tell me, gorgeous?"

At the unexpected soubriquet spoken in a soft voice, Mycroft's brain seemed to blink off then on again, rebooting like a faulty computer. _Gorgeous?_ Me? _Surely not._ Was it possible for a mind to snort? Rather than answer his own rhetorical query, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I... find I do, though you may find it hard to credit. And in truth, I hardly know where to begin."

Greg took his face in his hands with exquisite care, doing a tiny eyecheck as if to ask _alright?_ Whatever expression the other man gave in response seemed to appease him and he leaned in, pressing his lips to Mycroft's in an inexorable press that sent Mycroft's heart thrashing against his ribs. Then Greg pulled back, lips drawing shiver-inducing trails over his cheeks and his brow and the tip of his nose, the light in those warm brown eyes like a pool of hot cocoa Mycroft felt content to drown in and never resurface. "Just start at the beginning, darlin'. I'm told s'a good place to start."

The wink of a star caught in Mycroft's periphery, and the corners of his mouth tugged into a faint smile as he realised there was really only one way to say it. 

"Well, Gregory, my dear. Once upon a time..."

_The End... or perhaps the Beginning..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for coming on this magical mini-adventure with me. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did  
> writing it for you.
> 
> Comments and kudos satisfy my tiny wishes, so I can keep working to fulfill your guys' literary Wishes.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is currently at 3 chapters but it has the potential to grow or fluctuate so I'm not committing to a chapter count right now.  
> Hopefully the premise is engaging to keep you tuned in for further installments.  
> In the next chapter, we learn more about wishes, clients and Mycroft's magic wand (you're welcome to guess. Bonus points if you're right.)
> 
> Comments and kudos are the magic which sustains me.


End file.
